Mary Reed - Nine for the Devil

“It seems to me some people aren’t human, Lord Chamberlain.”

John gave Pulcheria quizzical look.

“Seeing that evil creature gave me a fright. It made me think. People all appear to be the same flesh and blood, and maybe they are. But the same jar can contain wine or poison. Do you think there’s something different inside a creature like the Cappadocian than in you or I? Perhaps such things should not be called people just because they look like people on the outside?”

“Some call such people demons,” John said. “Or monsters, like the person who harmed you.”

Pulcheria ran a delicate white hand down the scarred ruin that made up one side of her face. “The man who threw the burning lamp at me wasn’t a monster, Lord Chamberlain, just a drunken fool.”

John pressed another coin on her and she did not protest.

He left the square, walking slowly.

He was almost sorry he had hired Pulcheria. It wasn’t right to spy on a friend, was it?

But John had merely wanted to explain Anatolius’ odd behavior. He had expected to learn Anatolius had resumed his old ways with women, that he had taken the young lady-in-waiting for a mistress, the sort of backsliding not uncommon with middle-aged men who were noticing the gray in their hair. He had never expected to implicate him in…in what?

There could not be any innocent explanation for the Cappadocian’s secret presence in Constantinople when he was supposed to be in exile in Egypt.

Reluctantly, he turned in the direction of Anatolius’ house.

That’s done, Kuria thought, and so now for the next step.

She set off down the Mese, having left the palace for the last time. She felt more confident than she had in days.

When she had returned to her room earlier after a stroll in the gardens, she found it sealed up, the door boarded shut.

There was irony in her being barred from her own room. Like most of the attendants, she rarely closed her door, let alone locked it. In this part of the palace there was no need. When they were not on call the young women spent as much time in each other’s rooms as their own.

The eunuch who oversaw the quarters for the ladies-in-waiting would not arrange for Kuria to be let back in, even to collect a few precious belongings. He claimed to have had the orders from the Master of Offices.

She asked if she might return for some things later when the room was cleared out.

The eunuch laughed. Everything inside was to be burnt.

Kuria felt a momentary pang of regret she had not chosen to go to the gardens later. If she had been present when the Master of Offices’ men arrived, she might at least have salvaged one particular item.

Perhaps it had been wise to go to the gardens early. For all she knew, they might have thrown her out of the palace bodily. She supposed, eventually, someone would do so. A bureaucrat in a warren in the administration building had probably forgotten to sign all the required documents.

So she had been deprived of a place to stay before being officially evicted.

There was no point in waiting.

After the shock of Theodora’s death had worn off, she had made plans. She had done what needed to be done in the palace, and now she had taken the first step on the way to her new life outside the palace.

Although she had lost almost everything, it was some consolation that she happened to be wearing her favorite dark green stola. It was no coincidence she practically coruscated in the morning sun, thanks to her jewelry. She’d prudently worn every piece she owned every day since the empress died.

Besides, she needed to look attractive for what she had to do.

She needed to make it plain that she was a lady now.

Kuria was not a beauty, but when she put her mind to it she was able to project an air of assurance that indicated a much higher station than she held.

A pair of laborers, judging by their dusty breeches and stained tunics, moved aside deferentially as she strode along.

Good, Kuria thought.

She was almost there.

She was prepared.

But it was also necessary for her to find a little of the young whore she’d been, to apply a dab of that garish makeup. Enough to say that she was a lady, but willing to be a bit more exciting than most ladies.

She passed the Hippodrome and crossed the street that ran along the side of the racecourse. She didn’t glance at the one-legged beggar sitting on a pile of rags near the intersection.

She never knew he was there until he was dragging her through the doorway of a vacant shop.

Instead of looking John in the eye, Anatolius stared down at the skull depicted on his desk top. “How could I turn him away, John? My father knew the Cappadocian well. You remember how much father wanted me to take up the legal profession. How could I refuse legal aid to one of his closest associates?”

John had broached the subject as soon as he set foot in the study.

“I am amazed Senator Aurelius would have allied himself with a man like John the Cappadocian,” John replied, keeping his voice level. He couldn’t help thinking of the Cappadocian’s escapades as described by Pulcheria. Nor could he see Anatolius’ staid, respectable, and happily married father engaging in such behavior or even wanting to be associated with a man suspected of such outrages.

Anatolius finally looked up. “That’s unfair, John. I know what people say about the Cappadocian. My father had a different view. He used to tell me people hated the man because of his reforms, because they didn’t like change.”

John wondered if he were, in fact, being unfair. He was angry that his friend had concealed the presence of the Cappadocian in the capital from him. “I admit I never dealt with the man. His reputation is unsavory.”

“I have no opinion on his reputation for licentiousness, if that’s what you mean. Mostly rumors, no doubt. My father worked with him in a purely official capacity. He respected what he did as Praetorian Prefect. Before he took over, the prefecture had become an empire unto itself, paralyzed in tradition like so many bureaucracies,” Anatolius replied. “There are those who devote themselves to writing histories of bureaucracies-the prefecture, the Master of Offices. They have a ready audience in their fellow civil servants. A clerk might spend his time poring over the the accounts of estates, adding up taxable goats and sheep, but at the end of the day he wants to read he is a valiant soldier, battling for the empire in an institution stretching back to the age of Augustus.”

He paused. “The Cappadocian had the temerity to imagine that the prefecture was supposed to function for the benefit of the emperor rather than for the benefit of its bureaucrats. Naturally, he was resented and hated. The civil servants didn’t care about doing things more efficiently. They loathed having to use Greek rather than Latin, for example.”

“You sound as if you are preparing to be a Cicero for your client, Anatolius. It is commonly said the Cappadocian was guilty of endless financial depredations. How do you defend him against that charge?”

“He merely enforced the tax laws others refused to enforce. If the rates are onerous, well, it is the doing of the emperor.”

“You should have told me he was in the city.”

“Why? It is my job to represent clients who come to me for legal advice. Do you tell me about every private discussion you have with the emperor?”

“His being in the city might well have a bearing on my investigations. He was one of Theodora’s bitterest enemies. Everyone knows that. He’s an obvious suspect in her murder.”

“But you said you do not believe the empress was murdered.”